


A She-Wolf's Mystery

by Knight_fall



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Lyanna Is Alive, Alternate Universe - Rhaegar lives, F/M, King Rhaegar, Queen Lyanna, R plus L equals J
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-01-12
Updated: 2017-08-17
Packaged: 2018-05-13 09:03:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 15,724
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5702731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Knight_fall/pseuds/Knight_fall
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A collection of R+L=J one-shots.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. A She-Wolf's Mystery

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Prince Rhaegar loved his Lady Lyanna and thousands died for it".

 Rhaegar loved her in black.

The color had been both Stark and a Targaryen color, though Rhaegar had no illusions regarding which house it represented in her mind. Either way, it had been fitting.

It was when she wore black that the extent of her beauty became most apparent; the radiant quality of her ivory skin, the redness of her delicious lips, the darkness of her thick lashes, or the contrast to it all, provided by the wild tangle of curls that framed her lovely face.

But none of it could compare to her eyes; It was then that one could see just how truly _grey_ they were, caught somewhere between steel and a winter storm, depending on her mood.

Black suited her. It was a color of mystery, uncertainty. It was one that meant nothingness, a void with no beginning or end. That was how Rhaegar felt whenever he looked at her, like he were crashing into an endless abyss, fading away and it was only a touch of her hand that could save him from doom, only a breath from her lips that would bring him back to life. It was only with her attention that the sun would shine again, only her affection that could thaw all and any ice inside him. She was his winter, and she was his promise of spring.

Rhaegar learned early on not to express such sentiments aloud. For when he did, men around him would at first laugh, then tap him on the shoulder and shoot him that knowing look, as if he'd just stepped foot out of a brothel. In turn, he would find himself mumbling awkwardly, trying to explain that was truly not the essence of it. Most did not take him seriously, but even when they did...

 _You are the king,_  they cried. The one blessed by the gods. You are the one worthy of awe and respect, from men and women alike, his advisors would say, and yet...

What was a king to his queen? No more than a lone feather or a speck of dust on a shelf, that she may brush away with the merest stroke of her fingertip, or allow it to exist at her mercy. It was her mercy that was his lifeline, and Rhaegar would not have it any other way. It was not that he knew no different, he did. People bowed to him, people looked to him, people _feared_ him, but he was sure none of them felt kneeling before the Iron Throne the way he felt kneeling between her thighs, caring about no else than the gentle commands she weaved and clenched into his tresses.

This was how she destroyed him and healed him at the same time, made him feel infinitely worthy and inconsequential all the same. And Rhaegar would have it all, forever, only to be allowed to kneel and worship at the altar of her beauty. He wasn't even certain that was the heart of the matter, in fact, he knew it was not. It was not the sum of her parts that he adored, at least, that was not all of it.

All of her had been exquisite in the way one would wonder if it was even humanly possible. The column of her neck and how fragrant it was, the creamy slope of her shoulder beneath, her small breasts and the way they perfectly filled his palms, her waist, her hips, her pale, lean legs - all of it had been godlike in the way Rhaegar knew no other thing to be. But even when he had her bare beneath him, it was still her grey gaze that enraptured him most of all, the glint in it that he knew would not be there if it were any other that inhabited that body but her. It was simple – he loved her body because it belonged to her.

This was a difficult thing to discern; divine and frustrating to contemplate. Rhaegar would have given up on it, if only the mere process of considering it hadn't been so swaying in itself. In truth, Rhaegar did not know where she received her power from. He had no idea. His analytical mind rebelled against this fact, struggled to come to a notion, any conclusion at all, yet the result was all the same. Rhaegar often heard it described as love, but such a word felt overly vague, too easily used and frequently uttered – it was far too simple to describe a concept that to him much seemed like the most convoluted, infuriating wondering he would ever stumble upon.

What was it about her that had such an effect on him?

He'd lay through sleepless nights, merely observing her slumbering expression. He would look over it all, her brow, her heavy eyelids, her little nose and red lips, usually caught in a slight semblance of a smile. He would watch it all, over and over again, and he could not decide which of it he preferred. Every single of those features was perfect, yet insufficient on its own, for when one detached and rearranged it in one's mind, it simply lost its charm.

How could something containing a finite amount of space - a mere wisp of a woman when one thought about it, for she was neither supple nor particularly tall, yet not unhealthily frail either – how could she so comfortably fit within the span of his arms, yet feel greater than herself, greater than him, greater than life itself?

These were the questions he often found himself pondering.

A little number of books entertained these sorts of questions. Even magic – and Rhaegar was not skeptical of it – he'd read, seen, heard, understood far too many things to doubt it – even a thing explained as inexplicable did not come close to capturing this infuriating phenomenon. For even when a dragon hatched from its dragon egg, it fed, grew and prospered as predictably as any other creature. One could observe the growth in its size, admire its color, one could count the sharp scales on his back and feel the heat of the fire whirling in his throat (though Rhaegar supposed it was luckier if one didn't). Even from the distance, when one dared not approach, a dragon's might and glory in the air would still be fully apparent to any man.

This was different.

She was there, in her entirety, before him, beneath him, laughing, smiling, crying and loving him. By the gods, he'd been inside her – a privilege she granted no other man and he knew he would go crazy, mad if it wasn't so. Rhaegar knew her inside and out, knew her highest hopes and deepest fears, which fruits she liked for breakfast and which she did not, how she liked to be kissed and preferred every inch of her skin touched, he knew it all. Even when, on rare occasions he did learn something new, he would file it away immediately, piece it together with all the rest and take solace in the illusion this meant he was that closer to fully understanding. He hadn't been, of course.

Perhaps once this feat seemed obtainable. Before Rhaegar had even spoken to her, heard the inexplicable warmth in her husky voice, before he'd ever fully met her stormy grey eyes and had her gaze back to him in return, there was a moment when he'd only seen her from afar, and half in ill-fitted armor atop it all. It was that instant that was his earliest memory of that pull, how oddly compelled he felt to come closer, to know more, to understand better...

Before he had tasted her lips, he could have hoped to find his answers there. Before he spread her legs, touched her warm skin, he might have naively thought having her so meant fully grasping all of her. He yearned for all these moments, Gods did he, yet found himself more lost and confused with each one, found them inspiring more awe and wonderment than they could ever put to sleep. He knew it all now, still eagerly awaiting the next day in a desperate attempt to learn more, yet it brought him no safety, no closure, no hope.

Years had passed, and years would pass, and it would all remain the same. For what truly Rhaegar longed to do was capture her essence in only a single moment in time, bottle it and never let it out of his grasp. It was this impossibility that frustrated him.

It had been such a fickle, dangerous thing, loving something that lived, and even more, loving it _because_ it lived. It had been frightening, disconcerting to know such a thing existed in this world, that it had the capacity to either inspire you, or clip your wings, utterly defeating you, depending on how close or far away from it you were. And there was no way to own it, no way to tame it, for to do so would be to defeat its entire purpose.

Thus, Rhaegar had to learn to have his heart walk outside his body, he learned to trust it would always stay nearby off its own will. And perhaps that was the greatest thing of all she'd taught him.

 


	2. A She-Wolf's Love

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The letter Lyanna would have written Jon, if she could.

 

_My dearest son,_

 

_There is one thing you must know first and foremost, and that is that your mother loves you. I never even thought it possible to love anyone as much as I love you now having you in my arms, even as I am injured and torn and bleeding. I won't be there to tell you, but you must know, I will never be as happy as having you in my arms, nor as saddened, knowing I have to leave you behind to this cruel world, that I won't be there to protect you. They will tell you many things, my son, wherever you go, that you are a bastard, that your father was a monster and your mother was a whore, but you'll know it in your heart that you were made with all the love of this world._

_You see, your mother was cursed with loving men from a young age. My mother (your grandmother) died birthing your Uncle Benjen, and left us all orphans, me with three brothers and a father. I always loved my father with all my heart, and loved my brothers even more. But I knew my days of living carelessly, running side by side with them were counted, I knew my lord father would one day see fit to wed me to a man I did not like, let alone love. And then at a tourney – the last one I would visit free I knew even then, I learned that it was possible to love a man who was not your own blood, love him as fiercely and hopelessly as the freedom he forever promised._

_It was not a choice for me then. Perhaps if it truly was, I would have made the wiser one, but I don't regret a thing, because then, I wouldn't have you in my arms. You see, your father was so sure you would be a girl, Visenya he named you before you were even born, but I knew, I knew you were going to be a boy, and that I was going to love you more than all the other men I loved combined. The heart-wrenching despair of knowing Brandon dead because of me, the neverending bliss I experienced in Rhaegar's arms, all of it faded to the background the minute I saw you. It was you who made this all worth it._

_I wish my pup I were there to tell you all of this in person, but the fever is growing stronger by the hour, and I fear I will close my eyes and never see you again. But you stay strong my son, stay strong for me and remember your mother loved you most fiercely, and if you can, forgive her for leaving you._

 

_Your mother, Lyanna Stark_


	3. A She-Wolf's Pup

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A look into Lyanna and Rhaegar's life through the eyes of their eldest child, Jon.

 

Jon knew his parents loved each other. Since he was a child, it had been difficult not to notice their spontaneous exchanges of affection, from gentle touches and shy kisses when they were before their children, to public, more lewd displays of passion when his father would impress Mother with yet another of his romantic grand gestures (and that man loved doing grand gestures; people could not count the number of wreaths his mother had received in her lifetime). Their love was in Mother's lamenting how Father always worked long and hard thus having so little time for her, and it was in Father's songs of her unwavering beauty and grace (beauty his mother had, grace not so much, but their father was none the wiser. Everything she did he loved by virtue of her being who did it.)

His mother's and father's love had been highly acclaimed throughout the Seven Kingdoms; women and men spoke of how lucky his mother had been, owning the heart of the most powerful man in the realm (though his father would disagree, he always claimed he was the lucky one), but to Jon it did not seem like luck. It seemed like fate.

His father had believed in fate; he was fond of prophecies, and though Jon did not share this passion, he'd become well enough acquainted with them. As soon as Jon was old enough to read, his father the king sat him on his lap, and showed him a large dusty book. _He is the Prince that Was Promised, and his is the Song of Ice and Fire._ „You are the prince from the book, Jon,“ his father told him then. Jon did not understand it now anymore than he did then. But he knew better than argue with Father's sensibilities.

His brother Aemon, however, liked to bring up the subject in the most uncomfortable of ways. _How does it feel to be prophesied, Jon_ , he would ask him in the most sardonic of tones. Aemon, for all the silver looks he inherited from their father, inherited none of his gift for subtlety or knowing when to stop talking. His younger brother enjoyed lamenting of what he called the „middle child curse“, and even more he loved saying that the only reason he was wished for was so that Jon, _the prophesied child_ , could have a sibling. This had, according to their mother been partly true („We needed to give you siblings. You should have seen yourself as a child, Jon, you were more solemn than most adults!“), but Aemon couldn't and needn't know that. Quite later, their little sister Rhaenyra came along, and won everyone's hearts.

 _My little princess_ , their mother called her, endlessly cooing over her, the last and unexpected child. His mother, unfortunately, had infertility issues that she struggled with, and with her having birthed him at the tender age of six and ten, Jon guessed that had partly been his fault. His sole birth had once upon a time been a source of great conflict at court that almost resulted in war. But then his mother fell pregnant again, and birthed a silver-haired boy, a living picture of their father, and everyone had been content. Everyone but Aemon himself, who grew up to be grumpy and resentful of Jon.

 _Come now, pup_ , he would goad him while they practiced swords, using their mother's petname for him. With curly dark hair, and grey eyes, Jon had been a son of Winter, a living depiction of what their mother would look like had she been born a boy. This, according to Aemon, was what earned him even Father's disproportionate affection.

„Do you know why our Father loves us?“ once he asked him as they stood in the gardens, their sister Rhaenys standing a few feet away from them in orange silks, having visited from Dorne.  

„So now you admit that Father loves you?“ was Jon's instant response, given the time Aemon spent disputing the fact.

„I never said he didn't love me, dearest brother,“ Aemon returned mockingly. „I just said he loves you more.“

Jon rolled his eyes. „Our father loves us all equally for we are all his children.“

Aemon snorts.„You are so naive, dearest brother. Merely entertain it for a second. What is the one thing you can say our father loves without doubt? Our mother. The reason our father loves us is not for we are his, but for we are our mother's.“ Of course, not _all_ of Father's children were Mother's as well, their father had a first marriage, and famously, he had abandoned his first wife, Elia for their mother. Elia, the first queen consort, lived with her daughter in Dorne. Jon always thought Father had been generous by allowing this; wishing to keep Elia away for their mother's peace of mind, he allowed his daughter away as well. He'd never seen it quite so cynically.

„Mother loves you the best for you are her firstborn, and for a long time, were her only. But that is why he loves you best,“ Aemon explained. „You are the one that looks the most like her.“

Jon drew in a morose breath. „If you are trying to say our father makes a difference between his children, _any_ of his children, you couldn't be more wrong.“

„Is that so?“ Aemon cocked a brow. „Then why are we here celebrating our half-sister's yearly appearance?“ Aemon had not had much love for Rhaenys, and had referred to her by her first name no more than a handful of times. Jon did not agree but he understood why; as much as Aemon liked to protest Mother's supposed indifference toward him, he loved and protected her fiercely. Rhaenys was evidence of their father's bond to another, even if it had not been one of love.

 _Those bloody Dornish,_ Aemon would grumble ever since they started being present at Father's small council meetings. As was to be expected, the Dornish did not appreciate their own princess being set aside for another, and therefore bore a certain antagonism for Mother. Aemon could not stand it.

„They should be happy he married their ugly princess in the first place,“ he yelled once in the hallway, with Ser Lewyn Martell guarding a chamber nearby. It was thanks to his younger brother that Jon decided long ago he did not need his own embarrassments, he got enough secondhand.  

However, Jon had never felt so adult as when their mother fell ill. Father was a lost cause, glued to her bedside and his lips to her hand, and his siblings were a crying mess. It was up to Jon to console his siblings, participate in his father's missed council meetings, up to him to decide which matters, if any, were to be presented to Father's most definitely divided attention. It was up to him to talk to the maesters, for he doubted they dared say the full truth to their father.

At three and forty, their mother contracted pneumonia, a thing babes died of, and unfortunately, after a long period of bedrest, so did their mother. Jon took it with forced stoicism, Aemon tried to hide tears in his sister's hair who wept freely. When servants wanted to move her body, take her to the sept and have her prepared for the funeral, their lord father threw everyone out and asked to be alone with her.

He fell asleep that night, curled around her, and he hadn't woken up. The maester said his heart stopped beating in his sleep. At one and fifty, their father still looked half his age and was just as healthy. _He died of a broken heart_ , they whispered. They buried them together, apart from their mother's locket which Jon remembered to take and bury in the godswood. Even though his highly successful reign brought prosperity and peace to the Seven Kingdoms, the realm remembered his father as The King Who Loved.

„I will do well by your heritage, Father,“ Jon quietly promised, looking at the wreath of blue winter roses. „And you and Mother will be proud of me wherever you are.“

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: What happened to Rhaegar is a real medical condition known as [stress-induced cardiomyopathy](https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Takotsubo_cardiomyopathy).


	4. The Dragon's Court I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rhaegar returns home after the Trident, and finds that reconciling having two wives might be more difficult than defeating any single man.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unlike the previous stories here, this is not a one-shot, but a three-shot (there will be two more chapters in this specific AU). I also realized I hardly ever entertain Elia's existence in my fics, I either kill her off or I leave her in the background, so this is a sort of a what-if where Rhaegar survives and both his wives do too.

 

The Trident had been won, Robert Baratheon dead, and King's Landing retaken, yet Rhaegar still felt his worst battles were yet before him.

Endless councils had been called, endless issues discussed, yet in all of this Rhaegar found negotiating with his wife was the most excruciating task of all. Elia had been distant, cold and unrelenting ever since he'd returned, and that was speaking without Lyanna Stark in tow.

Lyanna, whom Rhaegar had left at the Tower of Joy. Far too much time has passed, since he'd last seen her, he'd left her with her belly barely protruding underneath her white gown only for the raven to reach him today that she had given birth, to a boy. She needed to recuperate, from what was allegedly an exceedingly difficult childbirth (she'd been too weak to write him herself, Rhaegar was told), and after it the Kingsguard would accompany them both to the capital. More than anything else, shamefully more than he longed for his children, Rhaegar longed for a joyous reunion with her. He was more excited to see her again, than to see their son for the first time.

His first wife, Elia, however had resented him. She'd resented him for leaving her to her own devices for so long, for failing to protect his children, and for leaving her in the hands of his mad father. And she was right to do so, the only reason she and their children were alive was Jaime Lannister.

„So what will be of him now?“ Elia inquired of the man, who was still locked in the royal dungeons, for the sake of procedure if nothing else. It would look bad for Rhaegar to simply turn a blind eye to the crime. He did however plan to maintain a mock trial that would establish Ser Jaime's innocence. He would repay him by that much.

„He will be released at an opportune time,“ Rhaegar assured her. „His imprisonment is for the sake of appearances more than anything else, and the guards have been instructed to provide him with as much comfort as possible. The one thing I cannot salvage is his reputation. He will likely be dubbed as a kingslayer.“

„And what of Ned Stark?“ Elia further wondered, of yet another man locked in the royal dungeons. „What will be his punishment?“

„There will be none,“ Rhaegar sighed. „I will forgive him for his transgressions if he will forgive me for mine. He will be reinstated as the Warden of the North. I am wed to his sister now, it should prove itself as more than enough to keep him loyal to the crown.“ This hadn't been a lie, but it hadn't been the full truth either. Still, if Rhaegar had learned anything from having Elia by his side, it was that trying to fool her would only make one the greater fool.

„Your transgressions?“ Elia mildly snorted. Her dark gaze had been unrelenting and accusatory. „It seems you have selective approach when it comes to apologizing for those, my lord. Are Northerners more worthy of it than us mere mortals? If it were my brothers that rose against you in the Rebellion, I wonder what your policy would then be.“

Rhaegar did not take pleasure in her implications. „Elia-“

„I can deal with you loving her, Rhaegar. However, neither I nor your other subjects will stand for it producing preferential treatment. If your rule is not just, men will question it, and they will be right.“

„I wish to be known for my mercy, that is all,“ Rhaegar ascertained. „I will not be confused for my father.“

„I am sure that's the true reason why, my lord,“ Elia gravely returned. Still meeting his own eyes, she offered him a slight curtsey, then turned her slender back to him, retreating to what he assumed were her own rooms.

Rhaegar sighed. In truth, Elia had never contradicted him before. She had her own way of relaying her dissatisfaction, and Rhaegar took this into account sparingly, but she'd never openly defied him. _I must be going mad,_ he thought. Was this truly such an abhorrent decision? Even if it was, there had simply been no other path, Lyanna would never forgive him. If his rule would be unjust for it, so be it.

Elia claimed she'd took no issue with him having another wife, but right now he thought better of it. Was this perhaps a cry from a woman slighted, one that was disillusioned and feared for her own position? Perhaps.

Rhaegar had been clear about his motivations from the start. When Lyanna had caught his eye at Harrenhal, Elia had known. When everything he thought he knew of the prophecy collapsed, Elia had known. _Our child is not the Promised Prince. I had been wrong. It is her I need._

Elia would see it as a spurn against herself, however, and her brothers would see it as a spurn against her as well. The more calculated, political part of Rhaegar warned that giving light to his decision hadn't been wise, not while the tensions of Robert's squashed rebellion still ran high, yet still, guilt gnawed at him at the thought of omission. He might not have felt passionate about Elia as he did Lyanna, but he'd always been fond of her and he had respected her. And, perhaps it was preferable, allowing her some time to overcome her indignation, hopefully before Lyanna's own appearance at court. Rhaegar had no desire to witness conflict between them.

He bided his time until the evening, then headed to Elia's own chambers. He could have called her to his office, granted, made it more official and cold, but she deserved more from him. Ser Lewyn Martell had been at his post, guarding her chambers, and sent Rhaegar a nearly dark look as he knocked on her doors.

The inside of her chambers had been much like he'd remembered it, and in the midst of the room she stood, unwinded for the day, in an orange silk robe and her dark straight hair brushed down. She offered him an inquiring look.

„I must speak with you, Elia,“ he immediately made his intentions clear, not wishing for her to confuse him. She said little and merely settled against the bed that was behind herself. Her eyes widened when instead of claiming a chair for himself, Rhaegar chose to kneel before her. He'd surprised himself even, but the sight of her gave rise to much guilt and benevolence within him. She could ask for anything she wanted right now, and Rhaegar would've likely granted it, if only to soothe his own conscience.

„Elia,“ he began weakly, then licked his lips. He needed to speak with confidence, otherwise he might give her the impression this had been negotiable. „I must speak to you on the matter of inheritance. Particularly the inheritance of the Iron Throne. As you know our son, Aegon, my oldest son is by custom my heir as things stand right now. However-“

„However, what?“ Elia asked, her dark eyes guilting him and questioning him all the same.

„I wish to change it. No, it is required that I change it. The prophecy calls for it. The importance of the Promised Prince is too large. He must sit on the throne if there is an opportunity for it. And there is.“

Elia merely stared at him for a few excruciating seconds. Then she let out a bitter laugh. „Did she put you up to this? Did Lyanna Stark ask you to do this? And here I thought her a silly, stupid girl.“

Rhaegar glided over the insult she afforded Lyanna, thinking that lingering on it had been unproductive. „She had nothing to do with it. In fact, she doesn't even know of it. This is what I decided that, in my best judgement, needs to be done.“

To his utmost surprise, Elia painfully sobbed then, one of her hands rose to wipe at the tears that were spilling over her olive skin.

„Had I not been enough for you? Had the children I'd given you not been enough for you? I'd thought you different from other men. I thought you refined, intelligent and kind. But it seemed all that needed to pass you was a younger and prettier skirt for all your kindness to vanish into the air. Why is she more important than me? Why is her son better than mine?“

„Elia,“ Rhaegar begged, kneeling before her, taking her thin fingers into his. „This had never been about that. I make no difference between my children. I adore Rhaenys with all my heart, and so I do Aegon. You must understand. This is not my choice, it is what the prophecy requires-“

„You first thought you yourself were the Promised Prince. Then you thought Aegon was the Promised Prince. Now it's her son. What makes you so sure you are not wrong this time?“

„Elia-“

„No. It's because you love her, isn't it?“

„In part,“ Rhaegar admits. „I will not deny, realizing she exists had put things into a different perspective for me. The prophecy required me to love her. It was meant to be.“

Elia frowned. „Realizing she exists?“

„Yes. I never told you this, in fact I never shared it with nearly anyone, but I dreamt of her for years. A raven-haired, grey-eyed woman calling my name, wearing a wreath of blue winter roses. I had thought the dreams symbolic - I linked her Stark coloring and the roses to the North, I assumed she represented the upcoming winter I had to be prepared for. But one does not fall in love with Winter.“

„That was why you crowned her? You thought it a premonition?“

„I thought it was what I was meant to do all along. My father sabotaged my plans for calling the Great Council, as you are aware, and I thought the entire endeavor useless. That was until I laid my eyes on her. So please understand, dear Elia,“ he begged of his unrelenting wife. „Understand that I never meant to injure you. I know that intentions aren't everything, but I beg of you to still consider them. Please forgive me.“

Elia seemed untouched by these words. „Tell me, what am I to you Rhaegar? Your wife? Your queen? Or just an obstacle to your happy life with Lyanna Stark?“

„I could never think of you as an obstacle,“ Rhaegar chokes out. It wasn't true; that was exactly how he saw her when he was first ordered to marry her by his father, but that wasn't what she needed to hear. „You are my queen, and you are my wife. And I respect and cherish you deeply.“

Elia sighed, then gave him one of her mild smiles. He could not help but compare; Elia rarely smiled, and nearly never showed teeth, while one could easily induce Lyanna to laughter till she'd complain her belly ached. They were two different women, nearly opposite, yet both married to him. A balance needed to exist. 

„I always was weak when it came to you,“ Elia sighs. „I held myself above the frivolous court culture, above the giggling and blushing ladies trying to vie for your attentions, but somewhere along the way, I began desiring your affection all the same. I reduced into tears when I heard we were set to be married. I was older, and more mature than the girls _Lyanna's_ age, but butterflies still fluttered in my belly when I was thinking of you. I can forgive you, Rhaegar, if you can find a corner in your heart that is only meant for me. I am not foolish enough to demand the entirety of it.“

 „If that is your condition, then I pledge a piece of my heart to only belong to you,“ Rhaegar says.

Elia smiled, it was a true smile with bright teeth contrasting her bronze complexion. They kissed. Elia took moon tea afterwards. She did not need a pregnancy to kill her, just now that her life was starting over again.

 


	5. The Dragon's Court II

 

Today had been the day of Lyanna's arrival.

With her finally recuperated, the Kingsguard had taken to a journey, and Rhaegar could swear that ever since the raven reached him, he hadn't been able to stay still in one place. He hadn't seen her since he'd donned his armor to leave for Trident, hadn't kissed her, hadn't smelled her and hadn't heard her moans as she mewled them in his ear. He one part fought for his Promised Prince and one part to experience all of those again. He'd hardly given her thought until now, and for a good reason; if he had, this separation would be much too difficult to take. Now her arrival was mere minutes away, and Rhaegar felt like he could wear out the land beneath him if he were to dispel this tension by pacing back and forth. Still, he stood with his back straight, and strived for a collected appearance, most of all for Elia who had been standing by his side.

The red wheelhouse that rolled in then, preceeded by the Kingsguard, caused his breath to get caught in his chest, any minute now, he would lay his eyes on her. A chestnut mare bolted past the wheelhouse then, past the Kingsguard too, and Rhaegar realized he had been silly for ever expecting anything else. His eyes followed her perfect form, her slender back straight in a dark dress and her short curls floating in the wind until she pulled her mare to a halt, then swiftly dismounted.

Noticing him finally, Lyanna smiled at him, in a manner that made him think she was going to jump him and wrap her legs around his waist, and by the gods, he would have her do it, too, but then her expression fell, and he realized she was looking at Elia. She blinked twice and swallowed, then turned toward the wheelhouse, where he presumed their son was with his wet nurse. She then approached him and Elia, carrying a swaddled babe in her arms.

„This is your son,“ she told him, and it was fortunate that she did, for up until that point he merely gave her all of his attention, and not the babe. Self-conscious with Elia by his side, he merely extended a hand to brush it over the side of Lyanna's face, then allowed her to hand over the babe to him. _So, this had been his Promised Prince_. The child had an alabaster complexion that fully matched Lyanna's, and the dark curls atop of his head testified to who his mother was as well. The babe had so far been sleeping, taking even breaths in and out until Rhaegar shifted him a bit, then his big eyes with long eyelashes opened wide. He should have guessed that they were grey.

„He is lovely,“ was all that Rhaegar could say, yet, _he is you_ would have been just as correct. It seemed Elia's curiosity was piqued too, and she asked to hold the babe after him. Lyanna seemed to not be comfortable with this development on pure instinct, still she must have realized no harm will come of it.

„He looks just like his mother,“ Elia remarked, not quite as a compliment, and Lyanna did not take it as one either. She took her son back as soon as Elia would give him, and the babe fussed mildly, likely not enjoying the frequent shifts forced on him.

„What will be his name?“ Elia asked then, directing her dark eyes toward Rhaegar, but Lyanna interjected. „Jon.“

While he hadn't mentioned it to Elia, Rhaegar had agreed to this even while they were still in their Tower of Joy, unable to resist her charms as she begged him so sweetly. „If it is a girl, then you can name her. But if it's a boy, then I wish to name him, he cannot have one of those Valyrian names. He will feel so foreign to me then.“

Rhaegar gave her a smile then, and smoothed back a short rebel lock from her face.

„What of me? Do I feel foreign to you then?“

„Well, you did,“ Lyanna admits with a soft giggle. „It was what drew me to you initially. You were so different than any other man I've ever known. And I did like your name. Rhaegar,“ she repeated breathily, as if she'd never said it before. „But he can hardly be called the same as you.“

„So, how would you call him?“ He inquired, now gently stroking his fingers against the side of her face.

_„Jon.“_

„Jon?“ Elia mildly but incredulously inquired. She turned her questioning gaze toward Rhaegar then. _That is not a name for a prince,_ her eyes had said. _You cannot indulge her childish whims._

„We'll talk on it later,“ Rhaegar attempts to placate her. Elia did not seem to be happy, but she nodded nonetheless. „I have some errands to run in the city,“ She announced then. „I will return by the afternoon, and perhaps later we can share a meal. You can show Lyanna the keep. Lyanna,“ she addressed her then, only offering her a fleeting smile. She walked past her as straight as a spear, and Lyanna did a little curtsey still holding Jon, out of what seemed to be habit more than anything else.

 

* * *

 

 

While Rhaegar indeed had the best intentions of showing her the keep, Lyanna lost interest as soon as they'd reached his room; at her bidding the both of them fell backwards into the bed, caring about little else. He rested above her, and pressed kisses to her face, to her brow, to her little nose, to her lips, and Lyanna traced a hand from his chest and downwards to the bottom of his abdomen.

„Are you certain you are well enough to do this?“ he'd asked her breathing heavily, keeping his face in line with hers; he needed to ask this before the both of them would get carried away.

She did not respond vocally, merely guided a hand inside his breeches, making all rational thought go away. She seemed a tad shy when her clothes came off however, but there was nothing to be shy of, she'd been barely a tad softer around her edges from childbirth, but equally lovely.

„I hope that I still please you,“ Lyanna says. „I'm not quite as slim as I was, but I swear 'tis only temporary, you see, I haven't been getting much exercise in the tower...“

Rhaegar laughs. Loudly. At first, he'd planned to keep his amusement to himself, but somehow it nonetheless made its way out. She had been utterly silly; gods be good, he could still count her abs that she'd earned in her tireless riding adventures.

„What?“ She'd asked, frowning. „Are you making fun of me?“ 

„A little,“ Rhaegar confessed. „Lyanna, you look exactly like you did before.“

She seemed to have a retort to that also, but Rhaegar kissed her then, silencing her until that nonsense was out of her mind, and her protests replaced by moans. She sunk her nails into the muscles on his back, and tightly wrapped her legs around his waist; her mewls were playing in his ear as he moved.

Afterwards, spent, they both lay flat on the bed, he on his stomach, and she on her side, right beside him. Lyanna kept a hand in his hair, and lazily stroked it over a few times. Then, she asked. „She doesn't like me very much, does she?“

When Rhaegar said little, she let out a forlorn sigh, and turned to lay on her back. Her voice was weak and small, so unlike her usual lilting husky tones. „No one does. Ned, Catelyn, your entire court, they all blame me for the war. You should have heard the things they shouted at me. I will never be happy here.“

Rhaegar put a finger underneath her chin, lifting it so she would look at him once more. „You will be happy here. I will make sure of it. Even if they don't love you, I will make up for it, I will love you enough for all of them. And, as for Elia,“ Rhaegar sighed. „She is not angry at you. She is angry at me. Give her some time to adjust before you start resenting her for it. Hmm?“ Rhaegar willed her to an answer, tracing the tips of his fingers over her lips; she gave him a nod.

„Come now,“ he said, replacing his fingers with his own lips. „We should get down, and have lunch with Elia. You two ought to get to know each other. And, you also need to meet Aegon and Rhaenys.“

Smiling at her, he tried to provoke her into doing the same, but Lyanna frowned instead. „Must we go already? But I only just arrived. If we can't have today all for ourselves, than what day will we? Nay, I have a better idea,“ she tells him, tracing her hands from his back up to his shoulder blades, then coming to cup his face in them. „We should stay here instead, and do what we just did, and so on until we fall asleep, and then in the morning do it all over again. You are king and I am queen, no one rules over us, why would we do it anyway else?“

„Lyanna,“ he told her, as if her name was poetry in itself. „My wild winter rose. Every day, from here on out will be a day for you and I, but compromises must be made sometimes. And precisely for this is your first day here, we cannot just disappear. Come.“ He'd tried to placate her further by taking her hand and pressing her little wrist to his lips.

Lyanna smiled at him; it was faint, but it was a smile. She gave a sigh then, one of resignation and longing and perhaps just a bit of dismay. „Very well, then. If you say that we must.“

 

* * *

 

 

The entire meal between Rhaegar and his wives passed on a polite, if not entirely pleasant note; Elia seemed to adopt a cordial tone with Lyanna, one for which Rhaegar couldn't decide whether  it was feigned or genuine, yet nonetheless he appreciated the effort. Lyanna, however, still seemed stiff and reserved as Elia sipped the Dornish red, and inquired to her health and that of Jon's. Lyanna had not been a woman for court pleasantries, that much had been clear to him from the minute he met her. The North was harsh and unforgiving, she would tell him, and so are its people, there is no need or time for people to play at fake courtesies there. Yet, everyone who spent considerable time at King's Landing learned this skill sooner or later.

„I would like to check on Jon now,“ Lyanna stood up, wiping her mouth and excusing herself. „Your Grace,“ she said, as if not certain whether she was supposed to address Elia or Rhaegar or the both of them.

On instinct, Rhaegar stood up just after she did, and so did Elia. He was likely supposed to stay, and finish the meal with his first wife, yet he wished to see his Promised Prince as well. Elia would surely understand. Elia herself did not appear to wish to continue the meal either; she moved to leave before either of them did. Only in passing, she rested a hand on his arm, and told him, „I await to see you tonight.“

 

* * *

 

„Have you laid with her?“ Lyanna asked of him, as soon as they made their way to and entered her own chambers. „Since you returned, have you laid with her?“

Rhaegar knew this discussion would be difficult. He would have preferred bringing it up on his own terms, but Elia had done it for him. „Lyanna-“

 „No. How could you have laid with her? You swore to me your marriage to her would merely be on paper. You swore to me I would be your one and only. If I am not, then why would you be mine? How would you feel if I'd sworn to you up and down that I loved you, and then I let another man into my bed? Perhaps Robert Baratheon?“

„That is not the same, Lyanna-“

„Why? For you are a man and I am a woman? I do not accept that. I will not accept that.“ She took in a deep breath. „You will need to make a choice: either her or me.“

Rhaegar sighed morosely. „You are being childish, Lyanna. You behave as if I'd forced you into this, when you understood the situation perfectly well from the start. Tell me, what would you have me do, simply cast her aside, injure her dignity and hurt her standing before countless men through no fault of her own? “ Seeing by the stubborn shift of her jaw that this merely aggravated her further, Rhaegar resumed some of his previous demeanor; nearing her, he came to take gentle hold of her elbows. „I swear it to you, Lya, nothing has changed between us, and nothing will change. It is you I love, and only you.“

Lyanna shook her head. „You swore to me that your marriage was one of convenience. You told me you had been frank with her from the start. It never even crossed my mind, that you would resume your marriage bed to her, and you let me believe so, for you knew I otherwise would have never agreed to any of this. If you truly loved me, you never would have done this. You never would have knowingly trapped me. But it is I who is the greater fool, look at what I've done, exchanged one whoring husband for another.“

Rhaegar gritted his teeth. „Do not compare me to that man, you know it is untrue. It is duty that drives me, not baser desires--“

„And what difference does that make to me? I will still cry myself to sleep while you fuck another woman under the same roof.“ Lyanna cast her eyes down. „You do not love me; if you did, you would never be so cruel.“

 Rhaegar's hand came to lift her chin up, revealing her red lips curled down into a pout to him. „I do not take pleasure in this either, Lyanna. How could I, when it hurts me to hurt you? When I would rather die than cause you pain? But this is bigger than you and I. This is also for the safety of the realm. For the safety of you and Jon. Because as you said, my marriage to Elia is political, if it terminates, the tentative political alliance between Dorne and the crown will terminate as well. I cannot very well take on Dorne so shortly after the rebellion-“

„I didn't say you had to release her from her vows. I simply do not want you to share her bed. Why must you share her bed, then?“

Sometimes Rhaegar forgot Lyanna was merely six-and-ten, and when it came to some things, was more a girl than a woman. „You forget that word travels. That any pretense can last only for so long. If I cast Elia aside in any way, her brothers will not be happy, and any action they take could be something that will cost us immensely.“ Rhaegar lifted her hand to his lips, pressed a kiss to it. „Please understand, sweetling. Like I could truly wish for something that would injure either you and Jon? Like I would hurt either of you without a good reason? This is for your safety more than anything else.“

Lyanna's eyes merely studied him for a minute, in a manner that suggested she was close to agreeing. But she wouldn't be Lyanna if things were that simple with her. „No,“ she finally decides, pulling her hand away. „There has to be another way. If you can sweet-talk me thus, then I am certain you can come up with a way to placate her brothers.“

„Lyanna-“

„No,“ she says again. She moved back from him then, as if a spell that was between them had just been broken. „Perhaps you can have two wives on paper, but you will not be in two beds at once. I will not have it. For as long as you frequent her beds, you are not welcome in mine.“

„Lya-„

Lyanna took in a sharp breath, and straightened her shoulders. „I've said all I had to say to you. Good night.“

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be one more chapter in this specific AU. If you have any thoughts (or even prompts for other one-shots), feel free to leave me a comment about it : D


	6. The Dragon's Court III

 

Briefly after his conversation with Lyanna, Rhaegar abandoned her chambers and veered himself in the direction of Elia's.

Knowing her as he did, he'd vaguely expected Lyanna would see this as a thorn in her side, however, it did not occur to him it would be to quite such extent. No amount of begging, pleading, or reasoning with her did it; she gave him an ultimatum.

Yet it had not been just; not when honoring Lyanna's wishes would have meant spurning Elia's needs. After all the injuries afflicted, she had every reason to mistrust him, resent him and despise him; the only thing she demanded of him was balance. If he had ever doubted it, he couldn't doubt it any longer, Elia loved him. His inability to reciprocate in kind had been a thorn of its own.

 Rhaegar claimed stop in a collected fashion before Elia's doors; he took a step forward, yet the image of Lyanna's pout stopped him in his tracks. _If you truly loved me, you would never be so cruel._ No matter which choice he made, avoiding guilt was an impossible task. Rhaegar turned on his heel, and left for his own chambers.

 

* * *

 

 

That morn, having visited the nursery in hopes of seeing his son, Rhaegar found Lyanna already there. Turned away from him, and unaware, she held their son in her arms and sang to him an unfamiliar tune. Sufficiently distracted, she had not noted his presence until Rhaegar neared her and placed his hands against her waist.

„I was not aware that you sang,“ he murmured against her temple, then pressed a kiss there; she stiffened some yet did not pull away.

„I do not,“ she told him, shooting him a guarded glance; evidently, she was not willing to forego their quarrel of last night. „Not like you do, I merely do it around babes is all.“

Rhaegar took her chin between his thumb and forefinger, lifting it so he may kiss her; he'd played on her own ardour, and nearly thought he'd won, yet she pulled away from him soon, never opening her mouth.

„Have you spoken to Elia?“ She asked him, returning to her heels and licking her lips.

Rhaegar sighed exasperatedly. „Lyanna...“

„I take it you haven't, then,“ she retorts in a hiss. „I was serious in what I told you, Rhaegar. I will not tolerate my husband stray.“

Rhaegar would protest regardless. „I am not straying, Lyanna, she too is my wife-“

„'Tis a tired excuse,“ Lyanna returns. „You do as you will, and so I will too.“ And with that, cutting off any further chance at charming her, she lowered their son in his arms and left.

Rhaegar gazed down as his son tugged on his hair, tangling his chubby limbs in his silver tresses; the babe in his embrace was indeed the spitting image of his mother, except the babe held no grudges against him.

„Your mother is angry with me,“ he found himself speaking to the child. His prince made no sound, merely scrutinized him with wide grey eyes, urging him to continue. „You are better at listening than she is. I don't think you've inherited her character. You are calmer than her, less fierce. Luckily for me I suppose, I can hardly deal with one of her as is.“ Jon still looked at him without a peep.

„Do you suppose she's right?“ Jon did something Rhaegar would swear was a shrug, then started sucking on his thumb.

 

* * *

 

 

„I don't know what to say. I believe you're wrong. Even if you want her son on the throne, this is not the way to go about it. You're sending Dorne an invitation to rebel,“ Jon lamented, walking back and forth in Rhaegar's study; Rhaegar observed the red-headed man who dared speak to him so bluntly. But such was his value in Rhaegar's service; he prefered candid council to a pleasant one.

And perhaps he was right. A common theme that was, when it came to topic of the prophecy, Rhaegar lead with his heart instead of mind. That was how he found himself in this mess in the first place.

„Do you have another suggestion, Jon?“ Rhaegar asked, exasperated; today had not been his day. No matter what he attempted to do, it went wrong, from the button on his doublet this morning to his less than successful encounter with Lyanna. In the past, a few simple words were all that were needed for her to see eye to eye with him; in this, she had negated any influence he thought he had on her.

„Wait a couple years for it,“ Jon counseled. „You are in your prime, this will be relevant only decades from now. There's no need to make Dorne your enemy ahead of time.“

The link between his two dilemmas was not lost on Rhaegar. Ironically, that which Lyanna most dreaded would strengthen her son's place immensely; with Elia on his side, Rhaegar could afford to do this. With Elia slighted, alienated, and her woman's pride hurt, Rhaegar would not put it past her brothers to start a war.

The question of inheritance was yet open in his mind; while he'd taken time to speak to Elia, the conversation veered a different way, leaving him with neither clear consent nor sense of opposition. And, of course, then there was the matter of Elia, or rather Lyanna, who had chosen to make his life difficult on nearly arbitrary grounds.

„I don't know what to do about Elia, Jon,“ Rhaegar confessed, in plain manner quite atypical of himself. „What do I do? Elia begged me to merely retain her place, something she shouldn't have to ask for in the first place. Yet Lyanna will not budge, there's hardly a dent in her resistance, she could go on thus for the next twenty years.“

It wasn't like Rhaegar to spin in circles for days. It wasn't like him to not have an answer, yet this wasn't cyvasse or war strategizing, this was dealing with two unpredictable, volatile women (granted, one far more so than the other).

Jon watched him baffled, as if he saw no dilemmas in his way. „What is there to think about? Elia is your wife. Lyanna is your wife. Leave them to learn how to share. You've better things to do than mediate their petty squabbles.“

„I fear it is more complicated than that, Jon,“ Rhaegar regretfully expressed, pressing his long fingers against the bridge of his nose. „You should have seen how Lyanna behaves; I fear she's even more stubborn than you are. She is more frigid than the Wall, and I have no dragonfire. “

„I never understood what you saw in that wild bitch,“ Jon grumbled distastefully. „ She belongs beyond the Wall and not in the king's bed; wasn't there a tamer one to take on your way?“

„Silence now, Jon,“ Rhaegar counseled. „It is your queen you're speaking of now; you've made your distaste quite clear in the past.“

Jon grumbled and waved off a hand.

„I wish I could please the both of them, I do. But I suppose Lyanna will have to suffer.“

That evening, Rhaegar directed himself toward Elia's chambers once again, yet this time with firmer, purer intention. He had mulled over the matter countless times, and he has decided fairness meant more than his personal fancies. There would be plenty of time to indulge Lyanna later, and Rhaegar knew her forgiveness would not be easy to buy (he thinks a beautiful, purebred mare might be a start), yet she had no choice. They shared a son now, no longer bound merely through affection, and she had no way to truly brush him aside. He would repay his penance to Lyanna, just as he meant to do with Elia.

He found himself welcome in Elia's chambers, yet quite less so by Elia herself. Sitting at her vanity, she seemed quite distraught, and Rhaegar knelt at the base of her seat, quite reminding himself of the conversation they lead not long ago.

„I believe a few matters were left in the air last time,“ he found himself speaking, not quite certain of the strength in his voice, not quite certain she listened to him. Elia did not move, merely sat there, unaffected by his presence, yet affected by something. „I believe I had been unfair to you. And unkind. Yet most of all, unfair. I wish for you to know I know this. I wish for you to believe me I will make it right. I haven't come to you last night, I know-“

„Why haven't you come to me last night, Rhaegar?“ Elia asks, reminding herself of her voice, and reminding him as well. He blinked and raised his head to meet her eye.

„Well, you see, I simply-“

„Do not bother, Rhaegar,“ she cuts him off, in a most foreign fashion for herself. „We both know why you haven't come. We both know why you're here now. I know you came last night. I know you came, and then you turned and you left. And I cannot have it be this way. I cannot.“ This had been most surprising to him. Not a fortnight ago, Elia professed his willingness to work on this with him, she'd begged him not to close off and shut her out of his heart. Rhaegar, in spite his obvious failings, would try. But what had compelled this sudden change of heart? 

„Elia-“

„I don't want to be an obligation as to exonerate you, Rhaegar. I have bowed and bent for you, but I will not break. You should have your happy life with Lyanna Stark. And I will take my children and get situated in Dorne.“

„I cannot allow that, Elia,“ More than the thought of her leaving, the thought of his children afar deeply compelled Rhaegar. No, this had not been a solution.

„You can, and you will, Rhaegar. You owe me this much. And do not fret. My brothers will not raise in rebellion against you. You have my word.“

„That is not what concerns me-“

„This is what I need for my peace of mind, Rhaegar. And if you deny me, you're as selfish as you thought that you were.“

 

* * *

 

 

 It had been past midnight, and still he did not come.

That evening, Lyanna rested on her bed, impatient and eager for Rhaegar's arrival more than anything else. The restless anticipation she harbored had gotten the best of her for better part of the evening, she would bite and unbite her lip, played with the laces that held her nightgown together; for days now, she had retired to bed alone, a necessary, yet self-inflicted torture, thus she'd been most eager to see him, eager to brand him with heat once more.

This morn, instructed by a handmaiden, Lyanna climbed the tallest tower the Red Keep had to offer, and watched Elia Martell's back as she retreated, passing the gates, entering a wheelhouse, and soon becoming less than a blip in the horizon. Truth be told, Lyanna did not wish for this; Elia's departure was more than she bargained for, and Lyanna bore no ill feelings for the woman. All she wished for were Rhaegar's affections, for him to make love to her and no other; this achieved this end as much as any else.

Once Rhaegar arrived, Lyanna wasted no time in reaching him; with all delight of the world, she'd kissed him, running her hands down his chest, impatiently wanting to feel at his skin. Perhaps it had been tactless, to assault him quite as so, and it would have been more appropriate for them to talk, yet Lyanna wanted him, she wanted him insatiably, wanted him to want her back with same ferocity too. He himself had been most compliant, allowing her kisses as he shed his clothes, yet then he had slowed, forcing Lyanna to halt of her own. A stubborn cuff had gotten in the way, yet soon that too was resolved.

Pulling him back, Lyanna anchored a hand at the nape of his neck, allowing him to lower her to bed, and himself on top of her. Lyanna loved him best like this, his strong warrior form lingering over her own, his perfect, chiseled face framed by those silver tresses, and his dark indigo eyes, darkening further by desire as they looked upon her. It was when he held her so, like he'd left the entire world solely to entertain her that Lyanna felt closest to him, wanted to burn with him until they melded into one another.

His deft fingers had already undone any laces, keeping Lyanna's nightgown on her, yet Lyanna was impatient to be rid of it, her face splitting into a grin at the same time as her legs fell to part. Heatedly, Rhaegar kissed her then, yet she couldn't wait, she wanted him now and whenever she could have him. This she would not have managed to share; she'd shared her husband with Lord Connington during the day, and would not share him with Elia Martell at night. Thankfully, that had no longer been a concern.

Rhaegar's cool fingers left her side to trace her jaw, reminding Lyanna once more of how cold his hands were, as if she were fire and he were the ice. His demeanor had chilled also, something Lyanna understood from his idleness, as any other time, he would have been inside her by now.

„What is it?“ She asked of him; Lyanna tried to sound concerned, yet knew she looked disappointed.

Rhaegar's face seemed perfectly level, but the tone that left him perturbed. „At times I wonder if you know, if you _understand,_ how much I sacrifice for you.“ Sacrifice? The mention touched her deep, Lyanna understood sacrifice well. Her brother choked and her father charred so she could be in this bed with him today. But did she regret it? It was difficult to say. At the very least she wished it could have been a different way. But what did Rhaegar sacrifice?

„At times I look at you, and I frighten myself with all the things I'd be capable of to keep you. Nothing else matters. Nothing. I used to be a reasonable man, a man with morals, a devout husband and father. Then you came along. Do you understand that?“

Lyanna nodded, she did understand. „Do you resent me?“ in a whisper, was all she managed to ask.

„No,“ he surrendered at last. „At times as I wish that I could, I cannot.“

„Then nothing else matters.“

Rhaegar's hands slipped to craddle her in the dark, and Lyanna smiled.

 


	7. A She Wolf's Doubt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Lyanna lives with Rhaegar at the Tower of Joy.

 

_"I can write the saddest poem of all tonight._

_I loved her, and sometimes she loved me too." - Pablo Neruda_

 

 

Out of all things Lyanna desired in life, Lyanna dreamed of one in particular the most.

For moons now they had lived in Dorne, she and her silver prince, and if asked, Lyanna would say she had been immeasurably happy. For moons, their routine had been one from the sweetest dream; Lyanna received the sword lessons she wanted from Ser Arthur, Rhaegar had ample time to mournfully play his harp, and when time would come, they would reunite and make love. For moons now, Lyanna experienced joy that could hardly be put into words, yet for him it had been quite less so. For moons Lyanna struggled to understand why that was.

It was in the little details. At first what she noticed, right after he made love to her, was his dedication to prophecies and songs. Lyanna would wish to love him particularly afterward; she would wish to cuddle him, breathe in his scent and never let go, yet Rhaegar was keen on it quite less so. Instead, he would hold her, offer a few sweet words and tender kisses, and then he would retreat to himself, either reading a book or falling asleep. Lyanna was jealous of that book. She wondered why did the book deserve the gentle caresses of his long fingers, and not she.

Then, there had been his tendency to look at her, yet at the same time look through her, as if she'd been a ghost, and not one of flesh and blood. Lyanna attributed it to his dreamy nature; he had simply been as so, she would tell herself. He looked at everybody the same way. But Lyanna did not wish to be _everybody_ to him. She wished for him to love her.

Sometimes Lyanna wondered why. Why couldn't he love her, as fully, enthrallingly as she did him, and what could she do for him to begin. Why did he take her in the first place if he did not love her? But then he would drift to sleep, High Valyrian on his lips and his hand on her midriff, and the answer would reveal itself to her.

Had this been it, then, could it have been? Lyanna was aware Elia could not grant him another child, though at that time, this seemed like an excuse more than anything else. He had two children already, didn't he, and if he'd sought her out, it had to be for he wished for her too, couldn't stand the thought of her being someone else's. But Lyanna soon learned he did not think that way. He was neither passionate nor possessive as she was; he'd simply wished to save the world.

„The Promised Prince, Lyanna,“ one afternoon he'd explained, keeping his hand on her belly, murmuring in the sweetest voice. „The world requires its Promised Prince. And I do too.“

His eyes, so distant yet intimate kept imploring her, his hand moved in a loving caress against her middle, and Lyanna could not help but nod. „I will give you your Promised Prince, then. Even if it kills me, I will.“ _Perhaps he will love me then_ , Lyanna said to herself, imagining her child swaddled in his arms. _Perhaps he will._

After all, how far away from this could Lyanna truly have been? Rhaegar treated her far better than she was lead to believe a woman would be treated by a man; he had never struck her, elevated his voice at her, or even so much as sneered at her, no, never, though perhaps that was for his silvery voice and sugary words were all that were needed for Lyanna to do his bidding. Rhaegar was cool-headed, kind and gentle most of all, gentle in his touches, gentle in his kisses, and considerate when making love. Still, something was still missing.

 _It is nothing, let yourself be happy,_ Lyanna would urge herself in her most sober moments. _You are cared for and safe, the man you love sleeps beside you, Robert Baratheon is far away. You are twisted and selfish if you're not happy with what you have._ But Lyanna couldn't, couldn't lie and say she did not care, couldn't lie and say she did not desperately wish for him to love her. The only lie she told herself was he did.

„Why won't you love me? Why?“ At times Lyanna wished to cry, her lips wanted to tremble and her fists itched to beat against his chest. But he could never answer her.

Perhaps it was that she was too young to intrigue him still; Rhaegar had been twelve years her senior, and more educated and intelligent than men twice his age. He would speak, yet she could not answer but look at him starry-eyed, for she had never even thought to think about the things that interested him. Perhaps, regretfully, it was her looks; Lyanna had known many a maiden more supple and comely than she would ever be. But if that had been so, surely he never would have noticed her. Then why?

„Why me?“ One night she asked him, unable to lie to herself, unable to fall asleep. He had just spent himself inside her, yet did not linger, offering affectionate touches as typical, he sat beside her and was reading a book instead. He turned his rather bored, and somewhat irritated gaze toward her, yet Lyanna would not be deterred.

„Why me? Why not one of the ladies from the Crownlands whose families would not fuss? Why not Cersei Lannister? Why not Ashara Dayne?“ Both these ladies had been far more striking than Lyanna, with lovelier faces, fuller breasts and ripe hips; surely if Rhaegar had wanted a child, he did not consider her ideal in her bony state.

Rhaegar offered a light chuckle, one that was meant to mean _What do you mean, why you? Because I love you, silly_ , yet Lyanna kept her gaze trained on him; she did not want his skillful diversions that day, she wanted the truth. At last, he spoke. „Because it was meant to be. Because you are Ice.“

 _No, you are,_ is what Lyanna wanted to say, yet turned away and curled into herself.

Still, sometimes, sometimes this was different.  Sometimes, Lyanna would swear it was love that peeked from behind his impenetrable gaze, lust that warmed his hands when he made love to her. Sometimes, Lyanna was happy.

Sometimes, when she made him laugh, a feat Ser Arthur swore no one else could accomplish, Lyanna would take it as evidence, little sign perhaps that he cared for her deep down. _He does, he loves me in his own way, he does,_ she would convince in her own head, _he has to love me_. It could not be the same intense, earth-shattering love she felt for him simply for Rhaegar did not feel as deep, but this did not matter, Lyanna would tell herself, as long as she caused some spark, some fondness, some attachment in him. She would love him in her own way, and he would love her in his.

Yet, inevitably, sooner or later, a sobering detail would come to pass, and Lyanna's illusions would shatter. Perhaps, he would sigh a bit too keenly when she expressed the desire to make love, as if it were a dreadful chore, or Lyanna would open her eyes, right in the throes of passion and read in his eyes he was awfully bored. At times, he would cuddle her afterwards, but only briefly, as if he thought he should but couldn't understand why. Lyanna didn't understand how he couldn't understand.

But he did love her in his own way, perhaps, at his own pace, sometimes. Sometimes, his hands would be less cold, his kisses seem more urgent, and her name on his lips more fond than what he spared for prophecies and Valyrian songs. Sometimes he would exhaust her, and be exhausted himself; he would move the hand from her belly to her brow, and murmur words of assurance in her hair. Sometimes, Lyanna would go to sleep, sleep and dream that he loved her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don't know why I keep coming up with new fic ideas, when I'm supposed to be working on my old ones. I'm starting to think one-offs might be my niche. 
> 
> I am working on the chaptered fics though if anyone cares to know. I've got a good portion of the update for SBTS done, it just needs some polishing that I hope to get done soon.


	8. A Lion's Duty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jaime is Lyanna's guard.

 

Had someone asked Jaime years ago what his life's calling would be, chasing after a she-wolf was one that would not occur to him. Yet, this had exactly been what filled his days; years since the Rebellion and countless relevant figures dead later, Robert had been king, Lyanna his queen and Jaime her trusty guard. He, out of all of them had likely been most satisfied with his position; Robert hated being king, and Lyanna hated being his wife.

Jaime's own duty typically consisted from accompanying the queen on long rides during the day to trailing after her through a Godswood deep in the night. Today, a spring afternoon had lured her out of the castle and into the woods outside, and the queen's repeated sighs told him she was feeling rather somber. In the ten years since the Rebellion, one would be a fool not to note the pattern, yet Jaime felt no need to comment on it. He had only been her guard, after all.

„Come and walk beside me, Ser Jaime,“ she called to him as she often did; at times he would agree to it, at times he would not. He extended his step and soon walked in line with Lyanna's little figure.

It was an art he had perfected; while the queen was much smaller than him, and thus her steps were naturally shorter, it was he in the beginning that struggled keeping pace. Jaime blamed his armor for it; the queen was freer in her choice of breeches or skirts. The woman liked to wear both, one layered atop of the other, as a surprise you would see when she carelessly dismounted from her horse. Today, her step had been slower than usual, her eyes caught by every branch and leaf in the forest. Jaime had to slow down in order to keep up with her.

„Do you ever think about it, Ser Jaime? The year of the False Spring I mean. I think about it a lot. The way I recall it, it had been eventful for the both of us, hadn't it?“

Jaime was taken aback. He and the queen lead quite a bit of pointless chatter over the years, but they had never spoken on it. It was a phantom, a silent understanding between them that this topic was not to be touched. It did no good to dig up unpleasant memories, Jaime himself thought, and he guessed the queen did even more. He had a natural curiosity of it of course, everyone did, yet he never presumed he would hear it from her mouth.

„I often think about it. I replay the memories, mull over the time from the ages past, I live in the past as some may live in the present. Though I suppose that is what happens when one's present is bleak. You remind me of him sometimes, you know. When we walk in the dark, when I look at you in certain angles, you do.“

Jaime frowned; he had looked exactly nothing like Rhaegar, and it was highly unlikely that she meant anyone else. Her going willingly with Rhaegar was an open secret, at least for the ones that knew Rhaegar; it was far easier to imagine a girl loving him than him taking one by force.

„The hair isn't quite right, though it is equally gleaming; yours is shorter and golden, while his was long and silvery as the moon. The eyes aren't right either; yours are an emerald green while his were a very dark purple – indigo I believe the color is called. But there is something about your face,“ Jaime bristled and Lyanna retreated her fingers; no woman touched him quite so intimately but Cersei. „It is strangely reminiscent of him.“

Jaime shrugged; he would let the poor, starved woman have her fantasy. Truth be told, he'd noticed the queen's stares on him, at times lingering for longer than was necessary, yet it never occurred to him she likened him to her dead lover. Strangely enough, he recalls Cersei and her own fascination with Rhaegar; perhaps there was a commonality to speak of there he could not see. „Did you love him?“ he asks before he can think on it better. Lyanna at least could, reasonably love him that is, while Cersei fostered an unhealthy obsession with who she thought he was.

 „No one will know it as I do, but I loved him more than words can say. I was devastated when he died, I might have even killed myself had I not been pregnant with his child.“

„A child?“ He had never known there was a child to speak of.

„Yes, a child,“ Lyanna confesses, smiling serenely. „A stillborn of course, for that is how these things do. Robert knows; after all, it is difficult to conceal the fact a woman had given birth moons prior. He was such a sweet little thing too – long lashes, dark hair atop his little head, and pink cheeks; he was so so very quiet. There's no sweetest thing in the world than having a child, Ser Jaime. Though I suppose neither of us will ever fully know that joy.“

The queen had infamously been barren for the entire world to know; years of Robert ravaging her resulted in little more than his drunken frustration. The throne would likely go to his younger brother Stannis after Robert's death, and Robert was none too happy about that. He'd even entertained the idea of legitimizing some of his bastards, yet never quit to blame Lyanna for being defective or Rhaegar for ruining her, in more ways than one.

„Perhaps it was a mercy,“ Jaime plainly states, saying that which was on his mind. Dying in a mother's womb seemed preferable to being crushed by Robert's warhammer after all.

„I do not know what it was, Ser Jaime,“ Lyanna returns breathily. „All I know is that life is immesurably cruel. I hope the gods take some amusement in their jest, for mere mortals certainly do not.“

„Do you wish you had had children later?“ For some odd reason, Jaime supposed not. Robert seemed far more affected by it, even going as far as to stray from her bed, which he guessed wasn't a mournful outcome for the queen. Lyanna seemed unburdened, at the very least unburdened by it. In spirit, she was much a child herself, it seemed unfitting to task her with being a mother.

„I do not know. Perhaps I should have. I'm not sure if having them would be a punishment or a reward. All I know is, for a woman, there's no greater act of treason than birthing children to a man she wasn't meant to give children to.“

„And yet you went off with Rhaegar.“

„That was not treason, Ser Jaime,“ Lyanna corrects, in a voice fit for challenging if he ever meant otherwise too. „All that happened afterwards was treason. But I know he would forgive me if he knew what I did,“ she says, referring to Rhaegar. „I know he would understand.“

„Do you think he loved you?“

„Loved me?“ Lyanna let out a snort. „He looked at me the way one would at a ruffled pup: with amusement, protectiveness, and just a twinge of pity. But you do not understand what it's like, Ser Jaime, to love someone so much it ceases to matter whether they love you back.“

Unfortunately, he did understand. „If it was me, I would gladly die as long as the woman I loved was safe, if I loved any woman that was.“ Lyanna's knowing smile tells him she wasn't swayed by the correction. „Life is for the living and the realm of dead for the dead; we all do what we must to survive.“

„It is a sweet sentiment, Ser Jaime,“ Lyanna tells him, lifting her eyes upward, trying to conceal her somber smile. „But in life or death, all lovers strive for is to be together. It is a fundamentally selfish thing, even toward your lover – you would rather you both die than one of you be left without the other.“

Jaime could attest to this. He could tell himself he only wished the best for Cersei until he was blue in the face, but the thought of her being someone else's and the smug smile on that viper's face was enough to have him dream of putting his hands around her throat. Perhaps Rhaegar was indeed bitter and vengeful somewhere, yet still, this did not seem like Rhaegar to Jaime.

„Perhaps he did love you. You might have just not known it; Rhaegar was a very private man.“

„He was, wasn't he? Yet I truly doubt it; in a way Rhaegar was above such things. I was special to him, yes, but out of other reasons. It is difficult to explain, Ser Jaime, but love was the last thing on his mind when he took me. Perhaps even more bizarrely I did not care; I'd rather have loved him for the both of us than bear Robert's misguided love.“

„But he was kind to you? He respected you?“ Jaime would have been thoroughly surprised if it was otherwise.

„Oh of course he was, Ser Jaime. If there was one thing Rhaegar could never be accused of it was that he was never needlessly cruel. If he would charm and lure away a silly, clueless girl for his own calculated goals, he would never bear to treat her with less than kindness. Though sometimes I do think he loved me. Not at the start, but perhaps later. Perhaps he pitied me so much he could not help but love me. When my brother and father died, he did everything he could to uplift my spirits, even beyond what was his typical kindness. _Be cheerful, dear Lyanna, I cannot bear it when you are sad_ , he told me once, and I think he truly couldn't. I don't know if he loved me, but he always aimed to protect me from pain.“

 „Didn't you blame him for that? For your father and brother dying?“This was an intimate memory for Jaime himself. Before chiefly associating it with the queen he guarded, he could hardly hear the Stark name without thinking of the smell of charred flesh.

Lyanna blinked up at him. „Rhaegar? No never, why would I? His father's madness was not his fault. Out of any living person, I blamed myself the most. Even if he had been at fault, your heart has a way of tricking your mind, Ser Jaime. I couldn't hate him when he was the only thing I had left.“

Jaime could understand this. On many an occasion, he'd turned a blind eye to numerous misdeeds Cersei had done over the years; no matter what she did, she was his Cersei, and it simply felt impossible to judge her. Now looking at the queen, the wide-eyed, innocent expression on her face despite the bitterness she bore within her, Jaime thinks he understands why Rhaegar was protective of her. She was slight and tiny, ludicrously vulnerable and intensely naive, almost as a child.

At times it had been defeating, depressing to be her guard, for it seemed she herself did not care about her life. She pulled dangerous stunts on her horse, would goad him into a riding match and then disappear from sight, laughing at him when he would sigh with relief, at last finding her alive, yet even the amusement of her pranks seemed to leave her empty. Keeping her alive much felt like keeping a watchful eye over a babe; more difficult than it should be, yet immensely rewarding when you succeeded in keeping the silly creature from harm. The great Ser Arthur died guarding this woman; in a way, Jaime considered her his legacy. 

„The three of the Kingsguard. How did it-“This had remained a frustrating mystery for Jaime. As other people itched to know what happened between Rhaegar and Lyanna, Jaime couldn't sleep at night, trying to think of a way in which a mediocre Northman such as Ned Stark could slay the famous Ser Arthur Dayne. It hadn't been honorable, for sure. Ned Stark judged him upon finding him on the Iron Throne, yet he had been far from perfect himself. The man had a bastard; Jaime struggled to think whether he was older or younger than his first trueborn son.

„He was your hero, Ser Arthur, wasn't he? I can hardly blame you, I thought him for a hero once as well. But knights are never as simple as they are meant to be; they are flawed men with layers just like anyone else. On the surface, Ser Arthur was an impeccable knight and you are a Kingslayer. Yet you have something he did not, you have compassion, Ser Jaime. Arthur did good things because they were asked of him and he enjoyed fulfilling orders; when no orders were given, he was left to his own rotten conscience. You do them because they are the right thing to do.“

How silly it felt, to be idolized by the woman who was ones moral test once upon a time, a test he nearly failed. But she was always testing him; it was a natural consequence of her nature, and with time, Jaime grew accustomed to it. The queen was fond of thrilling adventures: riding, sparing with training swords and seeking mishap in general; if one had wanted to harm her, counting on her own temper would largely lessen the job. It made guarding her that much more challenging.

„Why do you do it, then? Why do you give me hell?“ They both knew if anything happened to her, it would be Jaime's head first. The woman insinuated at times she considered him her friend, yet it seemed she was incessantly trying to kill them both.

Lyanna gave him a brilliant smile, yet then turned her head away. „Do not flatter yourself, Ser Jaime, I largely do it for my own sake. I was always fond of adventure; I must admit, at times I imagine Robert weeping over my corpse, and it makes it even more fun. Unless you plan to help me take the edge off another way, you will have to suffer thus.“

Jaime carefully chose to ignore the remark. To think he almost killed this silly, wild creature on Cersei's orders, it seemed nearly unimaginable. Cersei had wanted to be queen, Jaime had wanted her to stay near him. He gave the queen a spiked glass of wine, planning to snap her neck and blame it on a rogue guard, yet he couldn't do it, couldn't kill the woman Ser Arthur died to protect.

Later on, it ceased being about Arthur and started being about Lyanna; guarding her, Jaime found the task relatively fulfilling. Perhaps it was helpful that if he wasn't there, it felt she would have wandered off and had herself killed in the blink of an eye. Jaime had guarded a woman or two before, he guarded the Queen Rhaella, he guarded Princess Elia and her children. Neither of these women put him through nearly as much trouble; yet he'd failed them both; he wouldn't fail Lyanna now. For Arthur, for Rhaegar, and mostly for herself, Jaime would do his duty, he would guard the queen who did not wish to be guarded. For once, Jaime would be a knight.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A/N: This is implied in text, but just for the sake of clarity, Jon wasn't stillborn in this AU. He was born healthy and Ned claimed him as his own, it's just not something Lyanna tells anyone (hence Jaime remembering Ned had a bastard). She also might or might not be taking moon tea in order to be "infertile".


	9. A Lion's Duty (AU II)

 

Jaime guards Lyanna Stark. Jaime watches Lyanna Stark. It is difficult not to watch her; after all he guarded her, and she'd become the main constant thing in his life. Neither of them chose the other; destiny or Robert put them together, yet they come to where they wouldn't trade each other for another guard or another queen. Perhaps he would grow bored, watching the same person day in and day out, yet Lyanna Stark proves to be a particularly captivating sight. Thus Jaime watches: he sees the same thing, yet explains it differently every day.

It's not difficult to see she despises Robert. It's plain as day she abhors the frivolity of courtly life. But it's something else that weighs on her slight chest, something else that makes her breathing breathy, weighs her smiles into a pout even when she tries to bear a neutral face. In one simple word, she is unhappy.

Jaime thinks he knows why this is. He cannot know for certain and with her, there's no shortage of tragedies as to blame the first one that crosses your mind. Perhaps it is all of them, perhaps it is none of them, but she seems to crave her past as opposed to run from it. Her disatisfaction is something tangible, immediate, the type an animal might feel as much as a human might, and it's a tragedy in its own right. Sometimes Jaime feels this inexplicable urge to fix it. After all, what was the point of keeping her alive in body when she still moped around like a ghost?

He comes to an understanding one day, watching the feral frustration with which she hacks at a tree; she was denied her nature. She was a wild creature, declawed and defanged, shoved into a gilded cage much too small for herself and ordered to admire the bars. The saddest thing of it all is, she tries.

Then, one day there is Aurane Waters. A Velaryon bastard, a handsome lad, for anyone who sees his chiseled cheekbones and pale hair, he is Rhaegar come again. He comes on Robert's invite, some business about ships; Lyanna and Jaime have the good luck to be introduced to him. The first time she sees him, Lyanna stares at him like a hungry woman before a buffet, and Jaime understands, understands and wonders how did he not see it before (even when he did). Robert strikes her across the face, one of the handful of times he did that, yet enough for Jaime to cringe at the ugly bruise blooming on her pretty face.

(Were Robert to die, and Lyanna stay in King's Landing, there was decent chance she would have made the boy her whore. Still, Aurane Waters cleverly stays out of sight, smarter than to lose his head just because it resembled someone else's. That leaves Jaime.)

Jaime doesn't resemble Rhaegar, not even in the slightest even as she'll swear that he does. He sees her, sees when she looks at him for longer than is necessary, wants to extend a hand to his face yet feels too craven; he is her friend, as she likes telling him, and perhaps she fears losing her friend, particularly when it not him exactly that she likes, and they both know that. Still, she's done her fair share of madness in the years past, the wolfsblood explaining her behavior ever boiling; once, she tricked him and rolled with him into a ditch where she tried to kiss him, yet he had the common sense to stop her. He wonders where that common sense is now.

.

.

.

They're left to themselves tonight. Robert is off fighting or fucking boars, whatever it was he did, and no one else cares; Jaime is the only guard that could stop them.

They're a match made out of loneliness. They're not each other's first choice. They both had their heart ripped out of their chest; though he supposed she a tad more cruelly than him. Cersei wasn't dead. She just didn't want him anymore.

Lyanna is nothing like Cersei. Not in behavior, demeanor or even looks; though there's a certain thread of resistance that links them both. Cersei is fair and golden and delicate, while Lyanna is solemn, cold but feral. Still, she is beautiful in some strange way, charming perhaps could be better said, and still extremely intriguing. Jaime thinks he likes she is different, even if to her his only value is his semblance to her mate. He knows of this enough, sees the quiet disdain of Robert and the silent suffering in her eye, even if she'd only spoken of it a handful of times.

Some women were frigid, they could take or leave having a husband, yet Lyanna doesn't seem like one of them. She wanted thrill, seemed like she craved physical contact, yet no one would touch her but Robert, Robert who she couldn't bear not even in her loneliness. It is a pity. Jaime thinks it is a pity. She seemed like she could be happy, if one just let her have what she craved, unlike those who had it all and still moped they were unsatisfied (Robert comes to mind). Lyanna wants and craves and loves; it's not of this world, but for her it's all the same.

It is a strange mixture of pity and admiration that he feels for her. The woman was a walking contradiction; she was as small and vulnerable as a child, yet strong and persistent as a soldier. When she laughed, it was a most contaminating laugh, yet at any time, one could tell she was unbearably sad. She did provoke lust in him, from time to time.

He thought she would be louder. She moans here and there, but mostly sighs breathily, pulling at the hair near his nape; a few whispers escaped her too, but none quite as coherent to him. There's no name on her lips, though if there were, he knows it would not be his. She comes easily; he wonders if that's a feature of hers, or she was simply that starved. He doesn't take much care to not spill himself inside her; she is barren anyway.

He knows better than to linger after; her memories are plentiful and swallowing. Still, he sticks around, lingers for long enough to see tears forming even as her eyes are closed. He had aimed to comfort her, not to turn her mournful, though with her that seems unavoided no matter what.

Jaime _likes_ Lyanna Stark; he does not love her, but he likes her. He smiles when she smiles, he frets for her health; her life is his lifeswork if that made sense. He should know better, but he extends a gentle hand and touches her cheek. „Thank you, Ser Jaime,“ she tells him, smiling at him as she would at a friend. Perhaps that was the greatest comfort anyone could give her – being her friend.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna get off my bizarre Lyanna/Jaime binge now, and we're gonna pretend this never happened, k?


End file.
